


Virtuous Contrition

by Langerhan



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Caning, Chains, Consent Issues, Corporal Punishment, F/F, Face Slapping, Femdom, Fire, Theology, Top Michael, Under-negotiated Kink, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan
Summary: Satan will never be repentant enough to receive grace. Michael's willing to press the issue anyway.
Relationships: Michael/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Virtuous Contrition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrincexPhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexPhoenix/gifts).



> Happy birthday!

Some parts of Hell were more hellish than others. 

The dripping corridors definitely ranked high on the list of unpleasantries. Prince Beelzebub's weird school bully design phase probably gave several humans the shudders. The mildew in Lord Dagon's office had a sort of visceral crawl to it that would put a night terror to shame. As for Satan's chambers – well. 

Satan went for something a bit more classical. 

Michael would call it that if she were in a generous mood. The other descriptors which came to mind included _ridiculous_ , _stereotypical_ and _you were an angel once, you made beautiful things, could you not make something better than this?_ ; although the last wasn't so much a description as a perfectly reasonable question she'd once asked while Satan had been on her knees with a ring gag in to stop her from answering. 

That had been a far more interesting evening than this one. Neither Uriel nor paperwork had featured in it. 

“If I can direct everyone's attention to paragraph four, subsection five,” said Uriel, “you'll see the agreement we discussed last week on dealing with over-resourced battalions without default field leadership.” 

“Sure,” Satan drawled from across the board table. “Give it to the next little fucker who's brave enough to step up.” 

When Michael put her folder down, she did it only _slightly_ too quickly. The noise certainly wasn't enough to make Uriel and Dagon jump like that. At least Beelzebub only looked bored. 

“Well, gentlemen, I think that's time,” they buzzed, and Michael wasn't sure if addressing them all as gentlemen was meant to annoy their boss or their nemesis more, “Uriel, allow us to escort you out.” 

“I'm fine.” 

“Uriel,” Michael said, and gave her a short nod, “it's fine. You can go. Satan and I will finish discussing the logistics of field assessment. We don't need you for that.” 

“Maybe we should all stay,” said Beelzebub, sprawling back down into one of the wobbly chairs. “Help you finish up.” 

“No,” Satan replied after the sort of pause that reminded them all why she was in charge down here, “return the Archangel Uriel back to her rightful place, twittering up in the clouds.” 

Beelzebub and Dagon took one side of Uriel each and frogmarched her back out through the hallway. Uriel, to her credit, mostly just looked bored. Considering how often Beelzebub and Dagon had tried and failed to intimidate her, she may well have been. Michael watched until the three of them turned a corner, then turned her attention back to the meeting.

“You boorish little trollop,” she said, casually threading a hand through Satan's dark curls before tightening her grip to pull, “how dare you?” 

Satan's cheeks flooded red with what Michael could only assume was shame. She squirmed, arched her back and flailed at Michael's hands as if that had any chance of changing their current situation. Maybe it would do her some good to be kept here for a while, only able to look upwards and meditate on her poor choices. 

“I don't know what you're–”

The sharp crack of Michael's hand against her face was enough to stop that little lie in its tracks.

“Uriel worked hard on that contract,” Michael said, speaking as clearly as she could. “You were rude and dismissive. In that meeting, you took one more step away from grace.” 

Michael's fingers had left red welts across Satan's face. They were the latest marks in the long line of righteous graffiti which stretched all the way back to the war. 

“What should I do?” Satan asked. She wasn't crying yet but her breath was hitching enough to suggest pulling tears out of her wouldn't be too hard. “How should I atone?” 

Michael yanked on her hair in answer. This particular corporation was shorter than Michael, fluffy and soft round the edges, and prone to blushing. It was the one Satan wore when she was readiest to be taken in hand – closest to repentance, on her knees and shaking with apology. (It was a side she'd never yet show the rest of Hell, Michael knew, but they could take it one painful step at a time.)

Satan's chambers were a labyrinth that few could navigate. Michael, the warrior, knew the way to where they wanted to be: a small, dark room that smelled of holiness. She was the only one allowed to take Satan here. It was a privilege earned by dint of primacy.

“Take off your clothes.” 

Making Satan do it the slow, stupid, human way let her practice the virtue of humility. She fumbled slowly with the dark straps and Michael was almost tempted to step in and help, but to do so would have robbed the great adversary of the chance to better herself. 

When she finally finished, naked and shivering despite the cold, she looked almost innocent. Michael knew it was a trick; there was no world in which _innocent_ could be used to describe the fallen liar who stood in front of her.

“Raise your hands,” Michael said before she could venture any further down that path of thoughts. “Both of them.” 

Satan did as instructed. The manacles clapped tightly round her wrists. Michael pulled on the chain attached to them until Satan was almost on her toes, whimpering like a ballerina who wasn't ready for the stage. 

“Tell me what to do,” she mewled when she finally caught her breath, “Michael, please, tell me.” 

“You know what I want,” Michael replied simply. 

She wanted what any angel would want: for Satan to show contrition. Enough that she'd be forgiven and could return. If Michael needed to push and push for her to get there, it was a burden she was willing to bear. 

The spear appeared in Michael's hand almost without her thinking about it. As a weapon, it was responsible for roughly half the scars that littered Satan's body, but that wasn't what she had planned for it now. She stroked Satan's breasts with the tip of it and watched her shudder. The blade was sharp enough that she'd be able to slice each dark hair round the nipple without causing any more harm than fear. 

“I'm going to hit you,” Michael explained lovingly, “once for every time you behaved poorly in that meeting. You tell me what you did wrong.”

“I...” Satan bit her lip. The lipstick smeared dark red across her teeth. “I didn't greet Uriel when she came in. Only you.” 

It was a flaw, but not an egregious one. Michael walked round, carrying the spear across her shoulders, and watched Satan tremble, the chains above her rubbing against each other in metallic chorus. Her buttocks, Michael decided. Painful, but not too much so. She brought the spear swinging down until it cracked loudly across Satan's cheeks, raising a cry and leaving a red stripe that blossomed outwards into purple. 

“I was disrespectful towards Uriel,” she continued, and her voice hitched only slightly. “I said she twittered.” 

That one was worse. Luckily, Michael was a soldier with a keen eye and a steady hand. She laid the spear against Satan in the same place again, and Satan _wailed_ as blood sprang to the surface. 

“I rolled my eyes when you said Gabriel was smart,” she said, and Michael strolled round to face her so she could watch the tears fall. They were a sign of true sorrow, difficult to fake and as holy as anything got down here. Was rolling her eyes at Gabriel's intelligence worse than being horrible to Uriel? Hard to say. 

The top of her thighs seemed the right place for it; just below the crease of her buttocks. Satan shrieked when she made the spear sing to there. 

“I was,” Satan sobbed, crying properly now, the tears running down her face and sizzling when they hit the ground, “I didn't–”

Michael put a soothing hand on her back, just where her wings would unfurl if she still had them. “Tell me.” 

“I disrespected our soldiers. And yours.” 

“Pride,” Michael said softly. Satan paused, then nodded until Michael caught her hair and gently tugged it backwards. “A little envy towards Uriel, and perhaps some wrath, but pride has been your greatest sin this evening.” 

Michael walked round to face Satan. Her breasts – she was always proud of them. They were heavy against her chest, perfectly full and rounded. Michael put a hand forward to pinch one of the nipples. Well designed; both even with soft, dark hairs and pale scars pointing to them. Most humans would find them attractive. They would have to do. 

Michael raised the spear high and waited for Satan to catch on, fear blossoming across her face. With both hands she swung it down hard enough that the air whistled around it. The loud crack was matched by an equally loud wail, which stretched out into sobbing, the angry red line which cut across Satan's nipples keening into something as dramatic as the cries. 

She was quieter now, Michael noticed. She'd stopped trying to balance and was hanging entirely from the manacles at her wrists. It would be a good time for some sort of meditation on the misery she'd caused. 

“Lucifer,” Michael said softly, using the old name, “this is nothing. You know that, don't you? All my brothers and sisters you dragged down here with you. The human souls you were too jealous and petty to leave alone. Those are the ones who are suffering. Do you want to know what that's like?” 

Satan could have said no. She nodded instead. 

Michael took a candle down from one of the holders. An unlit one; it was much safer to light them herself, especially down here. 

It only took a few moments before there was enough melted wax to start dribbling over Satan's back. She hissed and struggled against it, forcing Michael to put a hand on her shoulder to still her. 

The usual unholy sheen painted her thighs. Michael knelt down to take a closer look and let the dark wax kiss Satan's lips, scorching pure lines through the coarse hair. She wailed again, thrashing against the chains, knocking the candle from Michael's hand, awash with profane grace.

Michael stood and brushed off her knees. She lifted the manacles' bolt and let Satan fall against her. It was possible she'd stain her suit with blood, but it was worth it to help bring such an immoral being closer to piety. 

As Satan rested against her shoulder, Michael stroked her hair and prayed. Standing in the dark little room, sweating and repentant, wasn't quite holy, but maybe it was as close as they would ever get.

**Author's Note:**

> This is much darker than my usual. If you look for this mood in my other fics, you will be disappointed. I'd recommend checking out [PrincexPhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexPhoenix/pseuds/PrincexPhoenix) or [Meridians_of_Madness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness) instead.


End file.
